


there's nowhere else you'd rather be

by GMKVH612



Series: blending quadrants is an art form [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blending Quadrants, Breathplay, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 12:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMKVH612/pseuds/GMKVH612
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas and you're pretty sure that, as entertaining as quadrants are in theory, in practice they're really just a whole lot of bullshit.





	there's nowhere else you'd rather be

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you're pretty sure that, as entertaining as quadrants are in theory, in practice they're really just a whole lot of bullshit.

~♋~♑~

You often have such thoughts at times like this, when you're curled up against your moirail after a jam; relaxed, whispering sweet nothings to each other and occasionally pecking the other's lips – until the kisses stretch and deepen and your breathing quickens and your hands tangle in his hair and you press closer to his bare skin and you _want_.

This has happened before, enough times that you only have to look him in the eyes (pretty, purple, perfect eyes) and whisper "Gamzee _, please_ " for him to understand – you're not sure what, exactly, but he figures it out anyway. He disentangles your limbs and kneels in front of you, urging you to sit up; kisses you deep and slow while he works at getting you both out of your underwear, leaving it discarded next to the pile.

~♋~♑~

Only then does he carry you to the couch, throwing the blanket off it before setting you down on your back. You might have been pissed at him for being about to ruin perfectly good furniture if that particular couch wasn't already stained to hell and back, but that detail soon escapes you when he crash-lands against your chest ( _oof_ ) and kisses you stupid (you kiss back) and all you can focus on are his hands curling around your neck. You sputter when he kisses along your jaw and wheeze as he nips at your throat, one thigh sliding in between your own already slick with red.

"S'okay, lover palest," you hear him croon into your ear, and shudder. "S'all right. I motherfucking got you."

He rubs his thigh against your nook, and you whine low under his hands. Your bulge strains to reach his, rubbing against his thigh; you're panting dizzily in want and shut your eyes briefly, seeing stars in the pitch black. Looking at him again, you swear you see the fucker smirk (and what it _does_ to you,  fuck, you're in _deep_ ) when you open your mouth to demand he take care of you right now, and all that comes out is an eager, mortifyingly high-pitched noise.

He sits up and his hands leave your throat to bring you up with him as he leans against the back of the couch. Giddy with air and the scent and sight of him, you chirp happily at the feeling of his bulge twining with yours, ice cold clamping down on you _tight_. You stroke his hips, time your thrusts to his own squeezes and get a groan in return for each; you hiss into his ear, let him know just how much you're enjoying this and just how badly you want him all the time in _all_ of your fucking quadrants  and then some – he nuzzles your cheek and kisses you fervently in response. One of his hands slides back to your neck and chokes again; the other settles at your hip and jagged claws (you make a mental note to help him trim them later) dig deep into your skin to nudge you along.

You enjoy the ride and get lost in the feeling of him. Your hands wander; you gaze into his eyes now and again and each time he looks at you so _adoringly_ you think your pusher might burst  with pity.

~♋~♑~

You've lost track of how long it's been when you dazedly decide it's time for you to speed things along. You nudge his wrist with yours and he lets go of your throat; dazzled, gasping for air, you guide his hand to your pulsing nook and let him work his fingers inside you ( _so good, feels so good_ ) while you extricate your bulge from his.

You and your moirail both whimper at the absence, you a little louder for the way he flexes his fingers inside your nook just then. You don't intend to leave him hanging and reach for his bulge with both hands, working him up nice and slick. His (stunning) eyes are fixed on yours and your breath hitches; you feel his hips stutter under yours. Then his thumb settles on your pleasure nub ( _oh_ ) and you feel so good and light-headed under his touch you can't help yourself – tell him how good he feels and _is_ and how eager you are to get his pretty bulge (which you're still  pumping) inside you–

He indulges you, and presses on your nub one last time before he wipes his hand on the couch, pushes yours away from him to bring you closer, and bends down to kiss you. His tongue traces your teeth at the same time you feel his bulge slide against your nook; you groan into his mouth, clutching at the couch behind him so you don't bite down on his tongue. He holds your hips in place as his bulge burrows deep into you and you break the kiss to throw your head backwards, squealing; you're falling apart and he's the only one who could hold you together through it all.

He watches you intently as you fuck yourself on his bulge, your own jerking helplessly against your stomach, and you feel a flush creep to your shoulders. He weaves a hand into your hair to keep your head back as he leaves a mark on your throat and kisses it when he's done; you almost sob at the sting.

He takes pity on you, presses you flush against him and rubs your bulge with deft fingers while his own curls inside you, ridges knocking against your nub; and you love him _so much_ and tell him so, tell him he's _beautiful_ and _so f_ _ucking perfect_ – chirps and trills and his name spill down your throat as you thrash and clench around him and you're lost to the world for a moment, orgasm crashing into you not unlike the waves on the beach he lives near.

~♋~♑~

When you come to, both your hands are fisted in his hair and you're still trembling against him. You can hear faint purrs echoing your own (louder); feel wetness – on your lower lip where you bit down on it (before he bends down to suck it clean), and pooled between your bodies. He's breathing dizzy and sharp against your cheek and he's _close_ and if you were any more heartless you'd take the opportunity to tie him up and leave him like that, watch him squirm, desperate to touch you.

But you're not; you settle for kissing the corner of his mouth as you brace your arms on the couch to pull yourself off of him. He whimpers and gazes at your face, confused when you push him on his back. You smile for him and leave a trail of kisses down his chest, mouth at his grubscars when you reach them. You nudge his knees apart with fingertips dragging down his thighs and back up to his dripping nook.

You already feel dizzy as you push two fingers into him to the knuckle; but you're positively reeling by the time you start grinding your thumb on his nub and watch him writhe and moan in pleasure at your touch– _for you_. He's gorgeous and breathtaking and he's _all yours_ ; you make sure to tell him.

At that he meets your gaze and mewls (lovely). You send a playful kiss in his direction and lean forward. Your breath ghosts on his bulge and he _whines_ , arching his back so his hips meet your mouth; you kiss him there and drag your tongue slowly from tip to base (where you nip at his ridges and he buries a hand in your hair), to tip again for the pleasure of him tensing and moaning under you. You tease and suck feather-light until he keens your name and pleads for more and you oblige, taking him in deeper, your fingers still pumping into him.

He fucks your mouth with wild abandon, all but screaming in delight while your favorite purple runs down your forearm and out of your mouth where you can't swallow it. You keep at it earnestly and, sharp claws at his hips, hold him in place when he starts quivering; needy moans of your name and sweet nonsense escape his lips ("Karkat, _fuck_ , brother, I– paler than the stars, lover mine, _f-ffuuuuck_ "– you nearly come again right then and there). You work to please him with renewed fervor. He tightens his grip on your hair and pulls your head down _hard_ and you begin to purr; the vibrations against his bulge send him over the edge. You get to help him ride out his climax, focused on the way he bends and jerks and cries out for you, and you feel so lucky to have him _there_ , you could weep.

He comes down in the end, tugs on your hair to beckon you closer. You slide up to him, embrace him, and brush your lips everywhere you can reach – against his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his lips. You gaze into his eyes (hazed over still) as your tongues meet. What you find there leaves you breathless; you don't know how you could ever have doubted he would love and want you as much as you love and want him. Overwhelmed, you whisper your love to him ( _you're his, as much as he's yours_ ) and feel him purr against your chest, content.

You're happy to stay here with him for a while. It doesn't last as long as you would have liked, but you're his warmth and you're getting cold, so you sit up and coax your moirail to the ablution block to rinse yourselves off (you'll deal with the couch and his claws tomorrow). It's quick but gentle, diamonds swelling in your chest (and his eyes, _oh_ ) as you take care of each other.

~♋~♑~

The both of you settle in his coon once you've cleaned up; you share a tender kiss, and drift off to sleep in each other's arms. Ashen morning light filters through the closed shutters, and there's nowhere else you'd rather be.


End file.
